Nobody Owens and the Sorceror's Stone
by storybookknight
Summary: A story seed available to anyone interested in it. Nobody Owens IS Harry Potter, and will go to Hogwarts with all his ghostly skills, eventually learning Necromancy from Professor Binns, who is much less boring to anyone with the ability to listen to his real lectures.


**Author's Note: This is an old fic I abandoned a while ago and never posted - it was eventually going to be a Harry Potter/Graveyard Book/Abhorsen Trilogy crossover, where Harry/Nobody learned Necromancy from Professor Binns. Right now I'm working on Holy Wars, a Dresden Files and Fate/Stay Night crossover, so don't expect an update anytime soon if ever. I think that this was an under-explored potential for crossover, so I cheerfully abandon the fic to anyone whose interest is sparked by it.**

**The Graveyard Book belongs to Neil Gaiman. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. **

Graveyards are by their very nature still and quiet places. It is after all the living that are most prone to moving and making noise, and such souls visit graveyards infrequently during the day, and even more seldom at night. Most ordinary folk rarely spare a thought for their own mortality, but the sight of rows of headstones seems invariably to bring such to mind. Perhaps that is why many graveyards are commonly surrounded by hedge-rows and tall trees that obscure them from view, further sheltering the dead from the clamour and bustle of the living world.

One would expect that historic graveyards, whose inhabitants have generally been so long buried that they are joined beneath the soil by everyone they knew in life (and thus freed from the burden of visiting relatives and mourners,) to be even more peaceful than the average resting place. In this one would be almost entirely correct - barring a notable exception, located in a nation called England, in a small town in West Surrey. That graveyard in particular is home to a very peculiar ten-year-old boy – peculiar, that is, in that he was wholly and entirely alive – by the equally peculiar name of Nobody Owens. That story is a strange and fascinating tale, but for the purposes of this tale, suffice it to say that ten year old boys are rarely among the stillest and quietest of subjects, even when they are in the very best of moods.

Nobody Owens reached down from his convenient perch atop a sepulcher to pluck a long stem of grass and placed it between his lips in the hope that having something to chew would distract him from the interminable lecture taking place somewhere in the vicinity of his right ear. Normally, Bod was an attentive student, and Mr. Pennyworth was one of his favorite teachers in the whole graveyard. Though there ghosts with better senses of humor, Pennyworth's subject matter was by far the most useful (seconded perhaps by that of Mrs. Lupescu) as it was from him that Bod had learned the ghostly arts. Arguably, having those skills had kept Bod from prematurely joining the ranks of the dead; more recently, those skills had allowed him to finally make brief trips outside of the graveyard to join his peers among the living, and even to attend school.

The recent events concerning his attendance there, however, had inspired Pennyworth to revisit one of his very favorite, well-worn lessons: the importance of Fading. "Honestly, Nobody, what were you thinking? Were you planning to make a target of yourself? It was kind of you to help a classmate being bullied, but absolutely unacceptable to reveal yourself doing so!" the ghost ranted, pacing back and forth on the air next to Bod's improptu bench.

Bod laid back against the marble sarcophagus, stared up at the clouds hanging in the stunningly blue July sky, and murmured noises of vague assent. _First Silas, then my parents, and now Mr. Pennyworth, and all on the same topic – staying hidden. _He nodded as Pennyworth waved his arms around to emphasize a point, doing his best not to let his resentment show. _It's easy for them to say – if a mortal sees them, the worst that's likely to happen is that whoever saw them gets frightened. If too many people see me, the man that murdered my parents is likely to track me down to finish the job! _Bod wasn't entirely sure how to deal with that startling revelation just yet; it had only been a scant few months since his enigmatic guardian Silas had helped Bod erase the traces of his presence in the living world, then provided him with the reasons why that erasure was necessary.

Bod realized that at some point during Pennyworth's lecture, his teacher had interrupted his criticisms of Bod's actions to focus on criticizing Bod's clothing and comportment instead. True, had an outside observer seen him and Mr. Pennyworth side by side, it would be hard to say which of the two figures would startle more – Bod's pale complexion and sun-bleached brown hair were covered in the mud of the graveyard, as were his clothes. Ever since he had stopped attending school, Bod had resumed his earlier habits, which is to say that since hot water is among the many amenities lacking in most graveyards, Bod had compelling reasons to avoid both bathing and doing laundry whenever possible. Though he had not – quite – gone back to wrapping himself in a borrowed winding sheet, neither had he made any effort to change his clothes. Without a compelling reason to look ordinary, Bod had become a dirt-caked figure of grey.

_I wish Pennyworth was wrong, _Bod thought, sucking on the grass stem absentmindedly as the clouds overhead went by. _It was… nice, being around people that talked, and laughed, and played with things. I was around people who changed, and came in happy one day and sad another and with a new haircut the next, and, and, were alive!_ Bod felt a little guilty at this traitorous thought; it was not after all as though he did not love his adoptive parents, or appreciate everything that everyone in the whole graveyard had done to help him. If anything, his anger was directed at the nebulous image of the man who had killed his parents, and confined him here - a dark man, with a dark knife, Silas had finally told him, but no more. Bod imagined a cruel shadow stretched across a patch of moonlight and felt his hands clench into fists.

"I say, Nobody, if nothing else you cannot afford carelessness! A single moment of inattention… are you listening to me?" Pennyworth's voice rose. Bod sighed and sat up abruptly, tossing the straw out of his mouth with a quick motion.

"Sorry Mr. Pennyworth. I think I'm too tired for lessons right now," Bod said. He dug the toes of his bare feet into the grass by the grave marker, the green summer grass prickly against their soles. "I'll be back later." Before Pennyworth could think to object, Bod had vanished off into the graveyard, headed for the Potter's Field.

There were few enough ghosts in the graveyard near Bod's age; though it was more common for children to die in the era in which the graveyard was in use than today, not every person buried became a graveyard ghost. Miss Burrows, another of his ghostly teachers, said that the reason had something to do with "mental fortitude" and "strength of character." She had then acerbically explained that such qualities were "not generally the province of the very young" while giving Bod a meaningful look, but be that as it may, the net result was that Liza Hempstock was one of the few ghosts who Bod felt he truly related to, and one of his closest friends.

His parents disapproved of her, of course. Liza had been accused of witchcraft, and executed because of it; the Owenses felt that this was not a particularly respectable way to have died. Nor was she buried in a particularly respectable part of the graveyard – the Potter's Field was mainly reserved for paupers and suicides, and his parents perpetually cautioned him that the protection of the graveyard was weakest there. For all that, Bod had never been one to abandon friends lightly, and visiting Liza was one of his favorite ways to indulge in a rebellious mood.

She was as always happy to see him. "Bod!" she exclaimed, materializing above the glass paperweight that he had long ago used to fashion her a headstone. "Have you come to tell me more stories?" Their usual routine involved Bod telling Liza about the marvels of the modern world, about cars and computers and fluorescent lights, while in turn she described bits and pieces of witchcraft. Today, however, they were interrupted by a most unusual occurrence – just as Bod was about to answer her an enormous Owl, flying in the daytime and bearing a creamy parchment envelope, perched on the tree above Liza's head. Bod blinked at it in confusion. Liza tilted her head, examining it. "I think it's a messenger owl! You haven't made friends with any wizards or witches lately, have you Bod?"

Bod walked closer to the owl. It was an enormous bird, with feathers of a beautiful tawny color and great golden eyes that fixed on him as he approached. When he got within arm's reach it hooted at him, extending the leg that carried the letter. "Not that I'm aware of," he said, an excited smile unconsciously breaking out on his face. Finally! He thought. Something interesting is happening! With one hand, he reached out and took the letter. The owl ruffled its feathers.

Liza peered over his shoulder curiously. "What does it say?" she asked.

Bod turned it over. "Do wizards send ghosts mail?" He asked. "It's addressed to somebody in the graveyard named H. Potter… I don't think I know anyone by that name, do you?"

Liza shook her head. "You should open it! Whoever this H. is, he'll probably need your help to read it."

Bod grinned at her. "And you're curious," he teased.

"Shush or I'll hex you," she retorted, sticking out a spectral tongue.

He stuck his tongue out too, and they both giggled. Bod shrugged and slid one unkempt thumbnail under the wax seal on the back and pulled out another piece of parchment with writing in brilliant green ink. "It's for Harry Potter, and it says it's from Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, headmaster Albus Dumbledore, Harry's been accepted, enclosed is a list of necessary supplies, term begins September 1, please reply by July 31. That's next week, I think." He looked at the enclosed list. "First-year spellbooks, cauldrons, robes…" his voice trailed off.

"Oooh, a Hogwarts letter! Back in my day, you had to be a really strong witch to even think about going to Hogwarts! Whoever this Harry is, he's a lucky one!" Liza floated higher off the ground, her hands clasped together. "I didn't know they accepted ghosts! Ooh! Do you think when we find this Harry, he'd ask them to accept me too? Or if we don't find him, maybe I could go instead?" She turned to Bod, and saw him still staring at the letter, his hands trembling slightly. "Bod? What's wrong?"

He swallowed heavily. "Liza… I think." He swallowed again, his mouth suddenly unaccountably dry. "I think… maybe… _I_ might be Harry Potter."


End file.
